


we could be making sparks (don't ignite)

by leighbot



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bisexuality, Falling In Love, M/M, Panties, Past Relationship(s), Press and Tabloids, Rimming, Solo Artist Harry, Solo Artist Zayn, Zayn in Lingerie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-13 20:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7984927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leighbot/pseuds/leighbot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>TMZ tweets ‘Zayn threatens to leave record label over new sign-on’ and links to an article implying that his meeting with Dan had been about throwing a diva fit over Harry Styles being on the label.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Zayn and Harry are solo artists on the same label and the media reads their relationship completely incorrectly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we could be making sparks (don't ignite)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsallaboutzarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/gifts).



> I loved all of the prompts but let one of them kind of lead me to this. It doesn't follow exactly, I hope that's okay! They didn't listen to me, these bratty characters!
> 
> Title from James Bay because I had him on repeat for most of this. I sculpted solo artist Harry a bit after him, as well, though with a bit more 70's rock as well.
> 
> Zayn wears panties in the smut scene. I don't entirely know but it happened.

**we could be making sparks (don't ignite)**

 

Money talks; if one has enough money, they get to say or do whatever they want. They can build cities or tear down temples and raze everything to the ground. They can hurt feelings or lift people up. They get to decide how their life goes without needing to consult with anyone else.

Fame is just as important. With fame, the money you have doesn’t always matter. Fame means you can influence people, direct their opinions. _It ain’t about the money, it’s about the power_. That’s not entirely true: having both is nice. But fame, fame is a business and celebrities are a brand and no one knows this better than Zayn.

Though his debut album had topped the charts and his even better performing sophomore effort had established him as someone people were willing to listen to, his agents have assured him that his journey was far from completed and the work needed is far from over. He’s suddenly the new ‘It Boy’, the one to watch. Sometimes it feels like too many people are watching.

The attention makes him feel justified but it comes at the price of continuing to sell himself. He knows how ridiculous he is that he’d rather be sat on the couch with his pets and a joint, making his way through Netflix shows as he paints or writes, than building his brand by clubbing with random strangers and the small handful of friends who’ve come to America with him. He knows he has to get his face out there, has to build interest in what he’s released, but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that he misses the ability to just relax as he wants.

Artists don’t get breaks and especially not any private ones for Sunday roasts with family. Brown artists especially are at risk of being labeled a one-hit wonder if they go five minutes without being heard. Zayn needs constant output to keep his relevance, and it can be the most draining. But he loves the fans and loves the fame.

So he attends the PR events, shaking hands and rubbing elbows with the right people. He keeps his Twitter up and active, making sure to send out updates regularly but also taking the time to search through the art the fans submit to him. He retweets what he can get away with, wanting to let the fans know how thankful he is that they’re with him. He likes to think he’s building real, lasting relationships with them. Gets to know their art styles almost better than their names.

He goes to movie premieres when he’d rather just wait until it’s in theaters so he can sneak in during a morning matinee after a sleepless night spent painting his studio over in white so he can go at it again in a few days. He makes sure that he is seen around town with other big players, guys at the top of the R&B game and girls who are proving rap is better when it comes from the fairer sex. His breakup with his girlfriend of a year makes headlines, and he does the round of interviews his team suggests.

He keeps up his relevance.

 

 

One afternoon in late December, he goes in for a meeting at RCA with Dan Chertoff, the new VP a&R guy. He’s almost obnoxiously early- apparently his agent’s constant lectures have rubbed off on him more than he knew- and he waits for Dan to finish up with a new artist, leaning on the receptionist’s desk and flirting sweetly with the lady behind it who is old enough to be his mum. Char’s rolling her eyes at him, calling him a charmer and a flatterer as if they’re insults, but he can see the upturned corners of her lips all the same.

The door to Dan’s office opens after a few minutes, Zayn straightening up and trying to look like the type of guy Dan will be proud of representing- mostly it involves good posture and keeping a smile on his face though he’s a bit nervous about the meeting. Dan’s only in LA for a couple days and he booked time with Zayn almost immediately. That could be a good thing or a bad one, Zayn isn’t entirely sure.

A lad is coming out of Dan’s office with him, smiling wide and flushing red on top of his dark California tan. He’s gorgeous: taller than Zayn, arms and thighs both deceptively thick with muscle with a hint of abs showing through the thin material of his black t-shirt. There’s a bit of baby fat over the tight waistband of his skinnies. He’s wearing Chelsea boots and an unbearably ugly hat, but the long, chocolate-brown hair tumbling out from underneath, curling a bit at the ends, is full and shiny and adds to the overall striking aesthetic.

“Zayn,” Dan says, stepping forward and holding out his hand. “Thanks so much for agreeing to meet with me today. Have you met Harry Styles? He’s a new sign-on like you were not that long ago.”

“’Fraid they’ll have to do a bit more prep with me, though,” Harry Styles laughs, holding out his hand as well. “Not as obvious a star as you, of course.”

Though he’s distracted for a moment by the flash of Harry’s green eyes and the deep dimple in his cheek, Zayn takes his hand eventually and shakes. He forces out a laugh, feeling awkward as if everyone can read his mind and see the truly rude things he's thinking about doing with Harry.

“Nice t’meet you,” he says, accent thick on his tongue.

One of Harry’s eyebrows quirks up and he squeezes Zayn’s hand firmly before letting his own slip away. He smirks, the corner of his lips tilted at a dangerous angle that lets Zayn know he isn't the only one feeling a bit of interest.

His gaze falls to the assortment of rings littering Harry’s hands, a mix of gold and silver in a mess that would look ridiculous on most people but seem to fit his aesthetic.

"Nice to meet you," Harry repeats after a moment, slipping past Zayn close enough their shoulders just barely brush though there's plenty of room for them both.

Zayn goes easily when Dan motions for them to enter his office, only turning back at the last second to look at Harry. He's stood at Char's desk with his elbows on the wood, laughing at something she's saying with a smirk on her face. His silhouette strikes a compelling shape against the overly large windows framing the lobby.

As one, Char and Harry both turn to look at Zayn and he panics at having been caught out. He does the first thing he can think of- pulls a silly face and sticks out his tongue- as he hastens the rest of the way into the office.

The sound of them laughing travels through the doorway after him, Char's bright and airy and Harry’s surprisingly loud and out of control from someone who had appeared pretty composed for the entire two minutes Zayn’s known of his existence. Dan, for his part, gives Zayn a confused look but asks him to pull up a seat.

 

 

Zayn leaves the building forty-five minutes later, a bounce in his step. He lights a cigarette as he gets into his security guard’s car, nodding to Alberto.

“Good meeting?” Alberto asks, pulling out of the spot almost immediately.

Zayn takes a second to respond, blowing smoke out the cracked-open window. “Yeah, actually. Got their backing to go in a different direction with the next one.”

“That’s good, hey- are you- no smoking in here, Malik, c’mon. We just got it detailed.”

“Sorry, mate,” Zayn says, stubbing it out and tossing it away. He catches Alberto rolling his eyes in the rearview, and he scoots forward so his arse is almost off the seat completely, chin resting on the back of Alberto’s seat. “Hey,” he says until they make eye contact in the rearview mirror again. “I get to pick whatever artists on RCA that I want for featured tracks. That’s pretty cool, huh?”

“Almost like you’re a proper popstar.”

“Like Britney.”

Alberto laughs, shooing him so he’s sitting properly again. “Just don’t wear the sparkly body suits, dude. America doesn’t need to see that.”

Zayn laughs and agrees, even buckling his seatbelt when Alberto raises a brow.

 

 

“Honey, I’m home,” he calls out as he heads into the front door of his Calabasas home, the down payment of which was the second thing he’d paid for with his sophomore album advance. A house for his parents and kid sisters was, of course, paid for in full with his first album’s advance.

He tosses his key to the door in a basket on the table near the hall closet, meaning to sort through the junk that’s collected there but not having had the patience for it.

“Liam, you here?” he yells, walking into the living room. With no sign of his live-in PA slash agent slash best friend, Zayn pouts and heads next into the kitchen to find something to snack on. He finds some jerky and nibbles on a piece, trying to get something together for dinner when he hears the garage go and Liam comes in the side door.

“I got Chinese,” Liam says, holding a bag up high.

“Good because we’ve literally got nothing in.”

“I just went shopping yesterday.”

“Bah.”

Liam laughs, setting the food on the counter and walking through the room to the laundry. “I’ve got a load on now, do you need anything?”

“I can do the shopping myself,” Zayn says, though he’s relieved to hear Liam’s laugh.

“We’ll have nothing but gummy snacks and beef jerky if you go.”

Zayn laughs, digging his hand into the bag for another piece. “That’s rude but kind of true.”

Liam hums, grabbing plates out for them while Zayn shuffles around grabbing cutlery and napkins. “You want a beer?” he asks, stepping back to the fridge.

They eat at the kitchen island, passing cartons back-and-forth until their plates are loaded up like they’re Olympic athletes, enough calories to last Zayn the rest of the weekend. He’ll have to hit the gym again in the morning, he thinks to himself as he chases a peanut in his gong bao chicken. Worth it.

“I completely forgot about your meeting with Dan,” Liam says around a mouthful of noodles. “How’d it go? How long are they giving you for the next album?”

“Six months to a year, depending how my ‘hype’ stays,” Zayn answers, throwing up one-handed air quotes. “I’ve got to keep promoting the album while working on the next one. And they want me to start dating again. Says it’s been too long since me an’ V split. My fans think I’m heartbroken or something.”

“You’ve dated,” Liam points out, diplomatic. Liam gracefully doesn’t mention that Zayn was heartbroken, a bit, at the very beginning. He typically falls in love hard and fast. The feelings stay lost past the point of expiration, and he hadn’t wanted to admit defeat when Vidya had been realistic about their time being over. A few fans had gotten pictures of Zayn driving in her neighborhood after their reps had released a joint statement. While the media had originally painted it as a possible reunion, it soon because clear that Zayn’s actions were more pathetic than hopeful.

The pathetic angle had worked for a bit, though, as he’d gone into the studio to write and release an album just four months later- a turnaround time his label had been shocked at. The press tour had been awful- a hundred interviews asking the same three questions again and again.

_Why did it end?_

_Who called it quits?_

_Do you miss her?_

His interviews had become duller and duller- there’s only so many times he can give a heartfelt answer before it sounds rehearsed and untrue. For a bit of fun, he had said aliens made them do it in one interview.

That had been trending on Twitter for over a day.

But Liam wasn’t entirely correct, a thought Zayn expressed by pressing his lips together in a line and scrunching up his nose. He certainly had gone on a date, one disastrous setup orchestrated by his producer, but mostly his ~activity~ had been focused on discreet, one-time hookups with people in the industry like him who knew how to be discreet.

“I don’t even know what that means”

“I guess I just need to be papped leaving someone’s house for it to all turn around. Or, fall in love,” Zayn laughs, pinching the last fried peanut between his chopsticks and popping it in his mouth. He gets up and puts his plate in the dishwasher, waiting around until Liam’s done as well. “I don’t know if they even want me tied to _one_ person. I just can’t, like, hole myself up anymore.”

They’re quiet for long minutes as Liam finishes. Finally, he hands his plate of to Zayn. “Do you wanna try to figure out the new _Madden_ again?” Liam asks.

An afternoon spent on the couch is just what Zayn needs.

 

 

TMZ tweets ‘Zayn threatens to leave record label over new sign-on’ and links to an article implying that his meeting with Dan had been about throwing a diva fit over Harry Styles being on the label. Zayn reads it while eating his bland, protein-packed breakfast of two eggs hard-boiled and a cup of cottage cheese because Liam is a sadist and is making him pay for the Chinese they’d had together the day before. The article is written as well as any that appear on the gossip site. Which is to say: it’s a piece of complete cow dung and expertly avoids any libel only by painting every word with an air of supposition as opposed to blatantly printing untrue statements as fact.

Feuding in music is hardly unheard of, and there have been some artists Zayn’s honestly had personal issues with, but the idea that he’s the type of person to go to upper-level management simply because RCA had signed a new artist is ridiculous. It’s an assumption that could hurt his career. As a Muslim-English musician living in America, Zayn is always aware that public perception involves a fine line he must always tiptoe. He runs his mouth more than Liam would like, and he doesn’t always apologise how he should, but he can’t let a rumor like this get too far.

Even with only knowing Harry for about a second and a half all-told, Zayn can tell the lad is charming and will be a breakout if all is handled well. Dan Chertoff hand-picked him as one of the first sign-ons under his tenure at the label; he doesn’t seem like the type to take a chance on someone lacking in talent, and seems serious about his vision for the future.

The article ends with a throw-away line about a possibility of Vidya having gone with Harry after Zayn being the true cause the “feud,” and Zayn snorts around his last bite of breakfast. His hand itches for his mobile, a desire to text V and see how she feels about the new turn of things. He lets the urge pass, though, doesn’t want to give any power to the article. He sends a link off to Liam, knowing he’ll be scanning the morning headlines while he gets in a workout.

He briefly wonders where TMZ got their picture of Harry: it’s not an official shot on a red carpet or anything, but a photo almost certainly setup by Harry’s team of him eating lunch with Cindy Crawford and family. It’s a strange juxtaposition to the picture shown of Zayn, looking angry in a pap shot that had been taken when paps had nearly knocked him and Vidya down on a night out. It definitely sets the tone that Zayn’s the aggressor in the situation, and he sends Liam another message about it.

_If we can’t get this retracted, get something for me to counter-act it please. can’t have people linking this to v_

He sets his phone down and stands to rinse his breakfast plates. He briefly wonders how his name and Harry’s got linked together so quickly, if it’s just their English blood that’s already having people begin the comparisons, before deciding to push it from his mind. He has a session with Malay later and wants to have a new song to present him, so he needs to get to work if he’s serious about putting this album out by summer.

 

 

February in Los Angeles is unlike any other city Zayn’s been in. The rain lets up, the sun comes out but the temperatures stay cool. Girls tan in Santa Monica and guys wear jumpers in Encino, and the elite gather one night a year for Clive Davis’ Pre-Grammy Gala in Beverly Hills.

Having been in attendance now for three years in a row, Zayn’s come to expect the usual things: first, there’s always overdressed men and women with more money around their throats in diamonds than Zayn will ever have in his bank account; second, at least two or three up-and-coming artists will perform at Clive’s request and completely blow Zayn away; and third, Zayn will either leave early or find someone to go home with. One extreme or the other.

The first year he had left minutes after his performance, having been riddled with anxiety to the point that he couldn’t stay further. The second year he had met Vidya, beginning a high-profile relationship that had gotten out of control very quickly. He figures the third year is literally the tie-breaker: he just as likely to handle his own tonight as he is to lose himself in someone else.

Zayn shows up fashionably late but still earlier than half the guests. He finds Clive nearly immediately, taking the chance to speak to him for a few minutes before his attention is inevitably called away. Clive’s feeling a bit under the weather this year but he tells Zayn- in-between a coughing fit- that his team’s been doing a fine job of flipping around the ‘heartbroken’ narrative they’d pushed before his sophomore effort.

Zayn laughs. “It wasn’t a spin,” he insists.

“Oh, I saw the two of you together, son. I know it was real,” Clive says. “I just mean: they’ve switched gears so quickly. It isn’t easy to control public opinion like this. You’ve got a genius working for you. That Liam boy, is he the one who speaks for you?”

“When I’ve my head on enough to know when to be quiet,” Zayn says, grinning self-deprecatingly. “He’ll probably piss himself when he finds out you know who he is.”

“I like to know who the people are behind-the-scenes, too. They’re usually the ones with the most know how. But good music is good music, kid. No one can deny that. If you don’t have the pull, no one will hear what you have to say.”

“How do I do that?”

Clive just smiles and pats Zayn’s arm before wandering away. Zayn stares after him, smiling through his confusion, until something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye.

Harry Styles is in attendance, a flared polka-dotted Gucci suit that’s practically painted onto his body. Zayn bites his bottom lip at the print, one he himself had turned down when he saw the picture in favor of a subtler black suit from the same designer and shirt with a mint green tie. The print looks different on Harry, though, more distinguished. The well-tailored lines draw Zayn’s eyes from where the blazer hugs his waist down to where the trousers cloak his endlessly long legs.

Though he means to stop looking and find another focus of his attention, Zayn forgets and Harry must feel eyes on him because he looks around for a second. Expecting a quick nod and awkward smile, Zayn is surprised when Harry excuses himself from the date he’d arrived with, smiling at her when she wanders into the growing crowd before walking towards Zayn, who is rooted to the spot.

The article about them feuding had been a one-off, a drop in the bucket that had either been uninteresting to the public or to the staff at TMZ, and their infrequent interactions since then had seen little to no press coverage. Since meeting just over a month before, they’d run into each other in the offices or studio a few times. Tonight is the first time Zayn’s seen him with his hair down, though, sans hat or messy top bun. It’s somehow darker than it had previously seemed, long and wavy in the way that hints at a strong curl if it was able to be free of product. Zayn instantly hates the stylist that had prepped him for the evening, hates the hands that forced the curls out of the chocolate locks.

As if he’s aware of Zayn’s thoughts, Harry pushes a hand through his fringe. His long fingers twirl around the loose strands as he presses it back, shaking it out so it looks thick like a lion’s mane before repeating the motion. He’s finally close enough that Zayn thinks he can scent the cologne he chose for the evening. It’s not one Zayn is familiar with, though it smells something like the amber oil Zayn keeps in the bathroom for hours spent relaxing in his soaker tub. It’s sharp and makes Zayn want to lean in closer to sniff it out.

He has to forcibly remind himself why that would be weird.

“Hey, Harry,” he says instead of making any move to follow his urge.

“Zayn, hi. How are you- y’alright?”

Zayn bites down on a grin at the wide-eyed look on Harry’s face. “Have you been to an industry party before?”

“Not like this,” Harry answers, honesty etched into his awestruck features. “This is _the_ big one. The ‘you’ve made it’ event.”

Zayn doesn’t know what to say next, isn’t always the best with small talk, so he stays silent. A passing waiter offers them champagne or something from the bar, and Zayn and Harry both reach for glasses with near identically quiet ‘thanks’. They sip in silence, Harry staring somewhat intently at Zayn’s face while Zayn tries to resist the draw of his gaze and look anywhere else.

It soon proves futile.

“So, um, did you know-“ Harry starts just as Zayn finally tries to begin a conversation with, “I saw you come in with someone.”

“Oh, sorry, go ahead,” Zayn says, waving the hand holding his glass to compel Harry to keep speaking. It doesn’t work as smooth as it does in the films, though, because a splash of his champagne spills onto his forefinger. He brings it to his mouth distractedly, kissing off the drop.

“No, you were… saying,” Harry says, pausing mid-sentence before finishing.

“I was just- you came here, tonight, with someone. I saw, um, her and you. Didn’t know you were seeing.. anyone.”

“I came with her and my manager, who is also her fiancée,” Harry responds, shifting closer as someone walks behind him. He doesn’t move away when they pass.

“I see,” Zayn says as he pretends Harry’s words don’t give him a sense of relief. “Um. You were going to say something.”

“Oh, right. Did you know that your earlobes line up with your nipples?”

Zayn, having attempted a sip of his drink, finds himself having to cover his mouth with the palm of his hand to avoid spitting anything out. He struggles to swallow, choking slightly before somehow getting himself under control. When he shoots a look at Harry, he’s startled to see the completely unbridled delight on his face.

“Did you do that on purpose?” Zayn asks, though he can feel the smile tugging at his lips.

“I swear, I didn’t but that was amazing,” Harry answers, as if Zayn’s performed a magic trick or something equally entertaining.

Zayn feels flushed at the attention, his skin warm and sweat beading a bit on his upper lip- though it could be spit from nearly choking, he isn’t quite sure. The room is warm but not enough to make him uncomfortable, generally speaking. He takes another sip of his champagne, carefully this time, to try and soothe the muscles of his throat by proving to them that they’re still in perfect working order. Quickest way to get rid of a tickle, his mum would always tell him. Just prove your body’s still working as it should. Calms adrenaline, lessens the pain from a rolled ankle, and helps overcome the urge to cough.

“Is that really true though?” he asks after another moment of silence, this one somehow less awkward.

“What- oh, the nipple thing?” Harry asks. “No idea, just saw it on a fun fact website.”

“You often troll random sites online for body facts?”

“Kills the time between inspiration. Sometimes even provides it.”

Zayn laughs again, this time with his mouth blessedly empty.

“What?” Harry asks.

“Nah, just- do you read, mate?”

“I know how,” Harry answers slowly, as if it’s a trick question.

Zayn finds himself speaking quickly as he launches into a story. “Naw, I mean. There’s this book I read as a kid, right? It’s about a boy who travels into another world, kind of like Narnia I guess, where everything is real literal.” Harry nods to show he’s listening. Zayn, bolstered by the attention and his own interest in the story, carries on. “So there’s a watchdog named Tock who is literally a dog with a watch for a body and the kid’s like ‘oh, I’m not doing anything, just killing time’ and the dog gets real offended, right, because he’s literally time. He’s a watch: he represents time passing. And he goes ‘s’bad enough to waste time, now you’re killing it!’ or... something like that.”

He fades out a bit at the end, a prickle of worry tickling at his mind as he begins to realise that Harry may not find it as interesting as he did. But the look of happiness on Harry’s face is only bigger now, and he nods at the end. “So you don’t use that phrase anymore?” he asks, picking over each word as if choosing them carefully. “Because of the pun?”

“If I do, I just think about the story.”

“What’s it called?”

“ _The Phantom Tollbooth_ , s’just a kid book.”

“I don’t think there’s any such thing as ‘just’ a kid’s book,” Harry says diplomatically. “Look at Harry Potter.”

Zayn grins, feeling his tongue between his teeth. Something in him sparks, an answer to the previous anxiety he had felt He recognises a point of similarity between them, like finding like. It makes it easier for him to decide to shuffle across the room with Harry as they discuss whether Narnia or Hogwarts would be a better reality to live in. Zayn firmly votes Narnia- nothing cooler than Talking Animals- while Harry is completely in the wrong for voting to be a wizard.

“Ugh, what kind of nonsense?” Zayn teases, leaning against the bar and waiting for their turn. Harry grins at him, lifting a hand to cup the elbow of the arm Zayn is waving about wildly.

“Gonna poke someone’s eye out,” Harry says, his eyes fixed to where his fingers are wrinkling Zayn’s jacket. Zayn doesn’t respond, too immersed in watching Harry’s hand slide along the cut of his suit, up his arm and down his lapel, but not before teasing a glancing touch to the line of Zayn’s throat.

Harry’s palm is warm through the layers of fabric and Zayn’s sure Harry can feel how fast his heart is beating when a bartender steps up to take their order and Harry lets his hand fall, the connection between them broken as they turn in.

“What can I get you boys tonight?”

“Jack neat, please,” Harry says. Zayn raises a brow but orders the same, not to be outdone.

“Wouldn’t have pegged that as your order,” he observes, accepting the drink once it’s slid across the bar top to him.

“Can’t exactly order a Pimm’s, now can I?” Harry asks, grinning. He holds his drink aloft. “To RCA,” he says, voice quiet enough that no one else should be able to hear. The sarcasm in his tone is heavy as he ducks his head, shooting a look at Zayn through his lashes, even rolling his eyes a little.

“To debuts and three-peats,” Zayn responds.

“To Hogwarts.”

“To Narnia.”

Harry’s brow furrows at that before he laughs and finally brings their glasses together and then back for a sip. He pulls a face when he’s done. “Oh, no. That’s bloody awful”

“You ordered it!” Zayn accuses, laughing after swallowing his sip carefully. It’s sweet on the back of his tongue. He licks his lips before taking another small sip.

“I didn’t think the drink would be warm.”

“You ordered it ‘neat.’ That’s no ice.”

“That was terribly stupid of me.”

Zayn laughs again. It’s a loud, true sound that he almost never really makes at public events like this. It even catches him off-guard. There’s something to be said about derisive snorts and sassy comments- sarcasm lends a bit of power to the words uttered- but full-bodied laughter is a power of its own. It makes Harry light up like a bloody Christmas tree, dimples and teeth on full display, eyes almost closing as he joins in the laughter.

They step away from the bar, arms brushing as they move in sync to a quieter section of the room. Before they reach their destination, another waiter with a basket over his arm steps forward with a grin. “Would you like a fortune cookie?” he asks, proffering what he holds.

Thinking he’s misheard, Zayn peers inside the basket, smiling when he sees chocolate covered fortune cookies in all shades of the rainbow. He reaches in and picks out a green one while Harry quickly chooses violet. The waiter makes to move on before Harry seems to have a sudden thought, a hand catching the waiter’s elbow only long enough to capture his attention.

“Sorry to bother, but would it be possible to get a yellow one in a container or box of some sort? Only, my mum would love if I brought her back one.”

The waiter nods and smiles, clearly charmed. “I’ll have that delivered to your suite, if you’d like?”

“Oh, yes, I didn’t even think of that. That’d be lovely, thank you for your kindness.”

Zayn watches as the waiter leaves, looking over his shoulder at Harry a couple times before turning the corner and disappearing from sight. Harry doesn’t seem to notice, attempting to open his cookie and hold his drink at the same time.

“Didn’t think this one through,” Harry admits, finally setting his glass down on a ledge while cracking his cookie. He pops a piece in his mouth as he unfolds his fortune. Before he reads it, he glances up at Zayn, who is still looking at him in amusement. “What?”

Zayn shakes his head, biting down against a smile. “You make everyone fall in love, don’t you?”

Harry looks around, brows furrowed. “I don’t follow?”

“You didn’t notice the waiter?”

“He was… nice?” Harry tries.

“He was smitten,” Zayn corrects, feeling charmed himself when Harry rolls his eyes.

“He was no such thing. Some people are just nice, don’t read into everything.” When Zayn rolls his eyes, Harry laughs and continues. “Just open your cookie. And don’t forget to end it ‘in bed’.”

“Please, like I’m an amateur with Chinese food,” Zayn scoffs. He sets his own whiskey down to open his cookie, though Harry is still laughing. “What’s yours say, then?”

Harry clears his throat and recites, “’Our first love and last love is self-love… in bed.’ That’s true, I suppose.”

“I don’t need to hear about your self-love,” Zayn teases, unraveling his own fortune. “’You will soon find contentment’.”

“In bed.” Harry prompts and then pouts. “You said you knew the game.”

“I-“ Zayn laughs “I do know the game, I just didn’t think mine would be so… boring.”

“I don’t think being content is ‘boring’,” Harry argues. “It’s romantic.”

“Romance is passion and heat.”

“You could interpret it more positively. Like… contentment could be ‘sated’. No telling how much passion and heat it could take to get you sated. Could be all night.”

Zayn’s breath hitches, his brain finally catching up to their conversation. Harry seems to be equally caught off-guard, a hint of a flush staining his cheeks. Neither of them breaks eye contact, though, the tension mounting a notch higher before someone intervenes.

A PA apologizes for interrupting them, though their tone is brisk and leaves no real impression of being sorry. “Clive would like to meet you before your performance,” she says, holding a hand out to guide Harry away.

Harry pauses, turning his head to look at Zayn again. “Are you staying for it? We can… talk more after?”

The pause is intentional and suggestive. Zayn understands immediately. He smirks and picks his glass back up, miming toasting Harry off and winking.

Harry grins, dimple back on display, before finally letting the assistant lead him away.

 

 

Harry’s performance is amazing. Draws people in from his first audible breath. Has all the charisma of Mick Jagger mixed with the subtle power of Jeff Buckley. Zayn watches him perform two songs with only an acoustic backing, completely in awe of what he sees. He draws Harry’s eye more than once, many times more to the point where it can’t be merely a coincidence. It’s powerful, having that attention focused on him. Having the attention of that boy focused on him.

Zayn leaves after the set, getting an Uber home even though Alberto always warns him not to. He doesn’t care, doesn’t even talk to Liam when he gets in. He’ll tell Liam about Clive knowing his name in the morning, but for now Zayn just heads up to his room, closes the door and immediately unbuckles his belt. He doesn’t even bother completely undressing, just shoves his pants down with his trousers until they stretch to a stop at mid-thigh, his cock already weepy as he takes it in his hand. He imagines he can still smell the spice of Harry’s cologne, can feel the heat of his hand against his skin. Zayn smooths the slick from his cock down the shaft, raising his palm to spit into it before getting a grip again and tugging off fast and desperate until he’s coming into his fist, a moan buried behind the teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he pictures Harry’s hands in place of his own.

 

 

He wakes up the next afternoon to a WhatsApp message dinging on his phone from an unknown number.

_Why didn’t you stay? -H_

Zayn groans, burying his face into his pillow. He attempts to convince himself he can just ignore it, but the contact status is ‘online’ and, as he’s watching, the status is replaced with ‘typing…’

_Sorry, this is Harry. A friend gave me your number. Hope this is alright -H_

Despite himself, Zayn laughs as he reads the words in Harry’s slow, near-monotone. He then sighs.

_hey, course it is. i didn’t know exactly what was on offer so i left. sorry_

A brief moment and then Harry is typing some more.

_You could have stayed to find out. –H_

Zayn doesn’t respond right away, and the ‘online’ turns blank twice in the long minute he spends staring at it until Harry starts typing again.

_Do you want to grab dinner tonight? My place? I can order in or make something, if you like. –H_

Zayn swallows hard. His gut reaction is to decline, like he has been for most offers since V had split with him for good at the end. Sure, he’d had some discreet hookups but nothing with people he didn’t know. He was under no delusion that Harry was looking for something real- he was young and about to breakout as one of the top artists in the field, there’s no way he’d want a distraction of a relationship.

Maybe a casual fling would be good for them both, Zayn reasons with himself. It would get their sexual tension out of the way, at least, and then Zayn wouldn’t find himself distracted every time he remembers the way Harry’s skin had turned the loveliest shade of pink under the lights in the ballroom of the Beverly Hills Hilton Hotel.

Instead of answering, he clicks out of the messaging app and scrolls over to Twitter. A quick glance at the local and world lists shows that #harrystyles is trending. When Zayn taps on it to see the most recent mentions, he’s hardly shocked to see his name as well.

‘Zayn leaves Clive Davis party early after newcomer Harry Styles steals the spotlight,’ the tweet reads. ‘Sources say feud is back on.’

He rolls his eyes and doesn’t click the link, sending it instead to Liam carefully. He’s accidentally fat-finger liked and reblogged tweets like this before, and his followers tend to notice even immediately deleted or removed actions. When he is sure that he has made Liam aware, and no one else, he clicks back to WhatsApp. He types, deletes, type, deletes and then finally settles on two words in the affirmative:

_What time?_

 

 

That night, Zayn learns exactly what Harry had meant about feeling content in bed.

 

 

The next morning, he gets a refresher course just in case he hadn’t been paying attention.

 

 

The California June is warm enough already that looking ahead to July seems like the heat will be unbearable. Another night means another club. Zayn loves this part, though. He has no problem ducking through a swarm of paps taking his picture to escape into the relative anonymity of the LA night life. If he plays his cards right, he can slip onto the dancefloor before too many people even take notice; he can keep his head ducked down and get lost in the press of bodies. The paps know he’s here, so he’ll inevitably be caught out before long. Once people are looking for him, it only takes a quick glance that’s a little too intense to simply be general interest, so he enjoys the privacy while he can.

Only a few minutes into dancing, a warm body presses purposefully against him. The man behind him is larger, abs rock hard against the span of Zayn’s back through the layers of clothing between them. Large hands rest gently on Zayn’s waist and warm breath ghosts past his ear.

“I was hoping you’d be here tonight.”

Smirking at the familiar voice, Zayn lets his arse press back into Harry’s hips a little bit rougher. He hears a chuckle in response, the hold on his waist getting a little firmer. Zayn reaches behind him, fingers slipping against the bare skin where Harry’s shirt has rucked up around his soft hips.

“You’ve got absolutely no arse,” Zayn hears and he huffs out another laugh, turning around.

Harry’s got the exact smirk on his face that Zayn knew he would find, his left dimple noticeably deeper than his right as he drags his gaze down to Zayn’s mouth. Zayn licks his lips, over-exaggerating the way the tip of his tongue presses against the bottom one as Harry blinks once, slowly.

“I’ve never heard any complaints about my arse before,” he says, voice pitched deliberately low. He knows Harry will hear him over the pounding baseline anyway.

Sure enough, Harry’s hands slide up to Zayn’s biceps, kneading at the muscles.

“I’d like to register one then,” Harry teases.

“You’ll have to do that during business hours, m’afraid. I’m off duty tonight. Just looking for a good time.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were chatting me up.”

“Who says I’m here for you?”

“You’re always here for me.”

Fuck, but that’s the entire truth right there. Ever since he had met Harry for dinner and drinks after the Pre-Grammy Gala, their paths have crossed every few days. Since they began their specific arrangement of friends with benefits in the vaguest sense, it’s seemingly gotten to the point where Zayn’s attempts to subtly seek Harry out are becoming painfully obvious. Twice in a week is nothing new for them.

“I’m here to build my brand,” Zayn argues, shifting back so a hint of space appears between their hips. “I’ve got an album dropping soon.”

Harry steps forward an equal amount, keeping them pressed together. It would be clear to anyone with an interest in looking that they’re neither of them dancing at all anymore, and the way they’re pressed together leaves no question as to their intentions. The sexual tension could be cut with a steak knife at this point and Zayn wonders how they would be around each other if they had never started hooking up. The tension would have continued to build, he assumes, and would have boiled over with nowhere to go without their release.

“You’re practically in your joggers and you’ve left your usual ‘Zquad’ at home,” Harry laughs in protest, wiggling his brows to indicate his quotation marks, hands still on Zayn’s body. “You’re here for me.”

The easy confidence with which Harry utters those words is getting Zayn worked up, and his lips part around a sigh as one of Harry’s large hands settles on the bottom of his spine. Harry uses it to pull Zayn in even closer, bending his knee a bit and shifting it forward so Zayn’s legs are either side of his thigh.

“I supposedly hate you, according to the gossip rags.”

“Well, that makes sense. My rock vibe is such a threat to your R&B one.”

“S’all pop music,” Zayn shrugs, grinding against Harry’s leg in a slow tease. Harry’s hands drift further down to his arse. “Too much,” Zayn says, loud enough to be heard over the music.

“Do you really care?” Harry asks, ducking his head. He teases the tip of his nose along the line of Zayn’s jaw, the scent of him wrapping around Zayn in a heady cloud. Though Zayn has long-since learned the name of Harry’s cologne, he’s never once used it or bought it for himself. There’s something nice and old-fashioned about Harry using the same brand as his dad for all occasions. Zayn, as much as he might miss the smell if it’s been a day or two without seeing Harry’s bed, would never want to associate it with anything but being near Harry. It’s nearly Pavlovian, the way the amber turns him on.

“I don’t care at’all but if you don’t pull back, I’ll-“ he breaks off, groaning when he rubs against Harry’s thigh again. He.

“You’ll what?” Harry laughs, pulling back and looking down on Zayn with a smirk.

“I don’t- I don’t know,” Zayn says, looking down and pressing his forehead against Harry’s chest as he rocks down again. He’s barely more than soft but it still feels nice, pressing against Harry in the middle of a mostly oblivious crowd. Harry’s cologne is thick in the air around him, the underlying scent of his expensive hipster shampoo only adding to the arousal that’s building low in Zayn’s gut.

“Wanna go?” Harry asks him, his voice rumbling through his chest. Zayn can feel the vibrations of him speaking from where his forehead is touching Harry’s sternum, his shoulders hunched and his hands still stuck on Harry’s hips.

“Can’t- just got here. Liam will kill me if I don’t stay a little. Says I keep ducking out of things too early.”

“Can I buy you a drink, then?” Harry laughs, stepping back until they’re not touching at all save for Zayn’s hands on his hips.

Zayn laughs as well, feeling like he’s taken a punch to the gut with how quickly Harry has slipped away. He nods, straightening and looking up at Harry through his eyelashes. Harry chuffs him under his chin with his fingers once gently, slipping away into the crowd.

Zayn shakes his head, taking in his surroundings again. The music’s still just as loud, thumping through the air and making it hard to think. He makes his way through the press of bodies, finding a booth on the edge of the floor and slipping inside.

Harry finds him easily enough, taking the spot on the bench next to him instead of the seat across the table. “How long before we can go?” he says with a cocky smirk, taking a deep drink through his straw.

Zayn rolls his eyes, knowing that Harry is well aware of how the motion makes his cheeks look. They’re both of them performers and, when it’s just the two of them, they often perform like this for each other. “Fifteen minutes,” he answers, grinning at Harry’s pout. “That isn’t very long.”

“Forever.”

Zayn leans in, mouth close to the shell of Harry’s ear while his hand drags teasingly up Harry’s thigh and over the press of him, half-hard in his trousers. “If you make it thirty minutes, I’ll let you get your mouth on me first tonight.”

Harry hisses a breath but otherwise keeps a poker face. Zayn knows he’s affected, though, feeling the kick of his cock through the layers. Zayn squeezes once before pulling away and knocking his own drink back.

“I’m going to go dance,” he says, deciding to tease Harry just a little further and climb over his lap instead of scooting out the other side. He somehow manages to swing a leg over his thighs and straddle him for a thrilling second, their bodies pressed together as if they’re already in the privacy of Harry’s rental, before he’s slipping the other leg over Harry and backing out of the booth.

“Dirty tricks, Malik,” Harry calls out after him, though Zayn just laughs and pays him no mind.

He’s only on the floor for a moment of two before a girl approaches him with her phone in hand.

“Can I get a picture?” she yells over the music, clearly a bit buzzed from the glassy sheen to her eyes. She’s flushed pretty and puffing her chest forward as if she may be interested, though he’d clearly need to gauge her interest a bit further if there was even a chance of something happening. To Zayn, the swell of her tits in her tight black dress would be tempting on another other day without a boy waiting across the room for him, so he just smiles and nods, posing for a picture on Snapchat with the only contact between them the press of their shoulders. She tries to turn and kiss his cheek but he pulls back smoothly, feigning as if he thought the picture was done.

“Thanks, love,” he says, turning away after a second long enough to not be considered rude. There’s a few more people, girls and boys and people clearly expressing themselves somewhere else on the gender spectrum. Zayn poses and smiles with all of them, though he keeps his distance physically. He’d had too many hook ups with fans when he’d first gotten popular, and rumors had spread about how many people he took home with him. It had put a strain on his relationship with Vidya, though any actions had always been approved by their mutually lax rules on exclusivity.

Something makes him want to avoid the speculation, though, so part of him is relieved when the half hour is up and Harry finds him in the crowd. “Are you ready?” Harry asks, a hand resting innocently enough on Zayn’s arm due to the attention he’s already drawn. “Looks like you’re having plenty of fun out here with your new friends.”

Zayn grins and leads them out a side exit, ducking into Alberto’s waiting car. The windows are tinted so dark that Zayn doesn’t know if he could see a camera flash even if there was one, but he’s pretty sure they’re out unnoticed.

“Take me to Harry’s, would you please?” Zayn asks, grabbing Harry’s wandering hands in his own and biting down against a giggle as Alberto rolls his eyes and nods, pulling out carefully and avoiding the club’s entrance.

 

 

The 101 is surprisingly smooth driving compared to its usual mess and they’re at Harry’s La Habra rental home before too long. It’s a gated community, so Zayn doesn’t hesitate to slide out of the SUV behind Harry and follow him into the house after thanking Alberto and letting him know Harry’s driver will take him home in the morning.

“If I hear about you taking another Uber from this guy’s house, I’ll personally skin you,” Alberto promises, a serious set to his expression.

“It’s only been a couple of times,” Zayn excuses, waving his hand.

“Just call me if you need me. You’re paying for it.”

Zayn sticks out his tongue in what he considers to be an extremely mature move and half-jogs up the walk to slip inside Harry’s front door. Instantly, Harry’s on him, shutting the door and pulling Zayn through the house and into his bedroom.

“Get these hideous clothes off,” Harry commands, pushing Zayn back playfully and beginning to strip off his own kit. Zayn goes a bit slower, shrugging off his jacket and slipping out of his t-shirt easily enough before stopping, hands resting on the waist of his joggers.

Harry only stops once he’s completely undressed, his cock flushed and half-hard already. His chest is noticeably rising and falling with his breathing, eyes zeroed in on Zayn’s hands.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks, flicking his gaze up to Zayn’s eyes before looking back at his waist. “What… What do you have on under there?”

Zayn grins, knowing Harry’s finally cottoned on.  He’s surprised Harry hadn’t guessed already, had seen these same joggers before the last time he’d had this special surprise. Now that he knows he has Harry’s full attention, though, he hooks just his thumbs around the elastic waist line and tugs them down enough to show off a sliver of lace.

“Zayn,” Harry groans, stepping forward and sinking to his knees. His own hands come up to cover Zayn’s, then, keeping them still as he noses and kisses along the exposed line of Zayn’s green panties. There’s no better word to describe Harry than ‘reverent’ right now. He coaxes Zayn’s joggers down further, worshipping each new inch until they’re finally pooling on the ground and Zayn’s dark jade knickers are fully exposed. Harry groans again, licking through the fabric along the thick bulge of Zayn’s cock where it’s already begun testing the seam integrity of the flimsy material. “I love it when you wear these for me, baby. So fucking pretty.”

“Love it when you- fuck, Harry- when you take care of me. Love that I can do this for you.”

“Baby, get on the bed.”

Harry sits back on his heels, looking up at Zayn’s face. Harry’s eyes are blown black in the darkness of the room, and Zayn runs his hands across his temples and down his cheeks, pushing back Harry’s long curls. “So good to me,” Zayn says, thumb running along Harry’s bottom lip.

“Gonna taste you, baby, like you promised,” Harry says. “Gonna eat you so well. Get on the bed for me,” he repeats. His voice is already low and slower even than usual, every word spoken with intent.

Zayn nods, stepping back and walking around Harry on the floor to climb up onto his over-sized, overly-soft plush mattress. He keeps the sway of his hips exaggerated, knows that Harry’s gaze is locked to the small swell of his bum when he presents like this. The comforter is already pulled to the ground and the sheets are messy, and Zayn has plenty of slack to gather in his fists once he finally reaches the near the pillows at the top of the frame. He holds his core tight, thighs pressed together as he lowers himself to his forearms, arse in the air.

The position is one of submission but Zayn feels the inherent power in it, knowing that he has Harry’s complete and undivided attention. It isn’t more than a staggered breath later that Zayn feels the bed dip behind him as Harry follows him up, warm hands circling Zayn’s ankles before sliding up his calves. His fingers tease where Zayn’s thighs are pressed together and Zayn relaxes, trusting Harry to hold his weight as he spreads his legs and sinks lower.

Sure enough, Harry’s palms support him until he’s in position before they slide up to tease just under the hem of his knickers. His mouth soon follows, kissing and nipping at the skin exposed when his fingers shift higher. Harry noses forward, his shoulders brushing the back of Zayn’s thighs as he gets impossibly closer, lips trailing along the lacy fabric until his teeth can bite into the elastic at the waistband, tugging them away from Zayn’s skin before letting them snap back gently.

Zayn moans, foot kicking out to the left as he tries to keep still. Harry repeats the motion again, the sting of it gentle against Zayn’s hips. Harry’s hands grip his arse, pulling his cheeks apart so he can lick at the tight hint of Zayn’s hole through the fabric. The lace tickles. Harry’s tongue is warm. Together, the sensations make Zayn kick out again in reflex as he whines through clenched teeth.

“Stop teasing, please.”

In response, Harry takes the waistband between his teeth again and carefully stretches it to guide it down and off of Zayn. The fabric slips easily over Zayn’s nonexistent arse, bunching under his bum where it meets his thighs, cock still trapped in the front. He’s relatively new to wearing knickers, had put on a pair as a joke for an ex before but never had done it seriously until Harry, and is still getting used to the way the thin lace feels against his skin. He’s wet at the tip, the fabric clinging to him differently than his pants usually do. He sighs out a heavy breath when Harry’s hands spread his cheeks apart again, thumbs brushing against Zayn’s hole without the thin barrier of the lace panties getting in the way.

Zayn tries to keep still but his hips thrust forward at the touch as if they’re unsure whether to push back or pull away. Harry murmurs a few soft words in a soothing tone as he repeats the stroke until Zayn calms. His legs spread apart farther, the strain of it already burning in his thighs. Zayn’s distracted from the pain, though, when Harry’s tongue drags, thick and wet, in the same line his thumbs had traveled.

“Fuck, Harry,” Zayn moans, pressing his hips back against Harry’s face this time. He’s rewarded for the action with Harry’s hands gripping his arse tighter, hard enough that Zayn knows the red marks from his fingers won’t fade so quickly. It makes him want to have something that will last longer, a bruise that won’t fade after a few hours. He presses back again, riding Harry’s face as best he can from his position.

He can feel Harry’s lips smiling as he pulls back and presses a kiss one of Zayn’s cheeks. “Love when you get all smooth for me, baby. Love when you wear a pretty pair of knickers for me.”

“Harry, I don’t- Anything for you.”

“Anything for _you_ , babe. Love that you love this, too. Wouldn’t do it if you didn’t,” Harry protests, leaning back in and kissing Zayn’s hole again. His long hair tickles the back of Zayn’s thighs as he pulls away again. “I don’t- won’t be able to fuck you if I keeping eating you out like this. Too fucking good. ‘M so fucking hard already.”

Zayn squeezes his eyes closed, pressing his forehead into the bed as his hips rock down against where Harry’s mouth had just been, chasing the sensation. “I don’t care, just keep doing…” he trails off.

“What do you want, baby?”

“Keep eating me, please.”

Even to his own ears, Zayn’s voice sounds small. It’s something he can’t control, the overwhelming loss of power in this situation. Getting off with Harry is always like this, a give-and-take where the power shifts from one to the other and back again so many times that neither of them ever come out on top. It doesn’t matter, in the end, because Harry does exactly as Zayn requests. His hands knead at Zayn’s arse cheeks, his hair drapes across the skin at his lower back and his mouth presses back against Zayn’s tight hole, his tongue pressing insistently inside.

Zayn whimpers, lowering his shoulders and pressing his cheek to the mattress, bringing a hand up to his mouth. He bites and sucks at the knuckle of his index finger as Harry bites and sucks at the quivering muscle, their motions completely and naturally in unison. Harry drags his tongue out and licks across Zayn’s hole in wide swipes. His thumb comes up to press inside, teeth teasing around Zayn’s already swollen rim. The hint of his fingernails drags Zayn through a new, conflicting sensation.

“Pretty,” Harry murmurs before running his thumb down the taut skin and licking back inside. He hums and mouths unknown words against Zayn’s skin, the vibrations ratcheting up Zayn’s tension already higher. Zayn keens when Harry’s free hand palms his tight sac, Harry’s long fingers teasing at the base of his cock. “Can you come like this?” Harry asks.

Zayn shakes his head, though he doesn’t actually mean no. Harry keeps his touches and licks light as Zayn pants into the sheets, gathering his thoughts. “I can try?” he offers.

“Want you to feel good.”

“Then please touch me, too. Please.”

“So polite, baby,” Harry says, his thumb and tongue waging a double-assault on Zayn’s rim as his other hand starts tugging Zayn off.

Zayn lets himself fall into the onslaught of sensations as he completely gives the burden of power over to Harry.

 

 

The next morning finds Zayn waking up in Harry’s plush bed, sunbeams streaking across the floor from Harry’s too-large windows that stretch the length of the room. Harry is still asleep next to him, sheets kicked off his still-naked body. He’s sprawled out on his back, cock soft against his thigh. He’s got hickies and faint bruises on his hips that Zayn’s hands had left last night once he’d shuddered through his own orgasm and then pushed Harry onto his back to suck him down.

Zayn stretches, untangling his legs from the bedsheets and rolling onto his feet, toes curling against the cold wooden floors. He casts one last look at Harry’s sleeping form, half-wishing Harry was sporting at least a semi because Zayn doesn’t know when they’ll see each other next and he could use a quick taste. He smiles to himself before standing and hopping into his clothes, calling a car service Alberto approves of and making his way to the downstairs toilet, splashing water on his face and squeezing some Colgate onto his finger, cleaning his teeth quickly.

His phone buzzes when the car arrives and he ducks out the front door after leaving a scribbled note on Harry’s countertop. There’s a neighbor outside a couple houses away and Zayn keeps his head down as he jumps into the backseat of the SUV.

 

 

Turns out, the neighbor had been a fan.

Turns out, the neighbor had been holding a cell phone.

Turns out, money talks and the neighbor had been listening.

 

 

The media latches onto pics of Zayn leaving Harry’s home. Article after article appears online, Twitter trends two separate hashtags worldwide, and Tumblr is a mess of posts trying to give them a ship name and track their every interaction going back to the Pre-Grammy Gala. Perez Hilton and Dan Wootton jump on the news, in particular, and Zayn takes Liam’s advice for once and logs out of all social media before he mouths off online about how wrong everyone had been about their supposed feud.

He pulls up his WhatsApp, tapping over to Harry’s contact. He has no idea what to say. Zayn’s career can probably withstand this- he’s had rumors in the past but never any kind of concrete proof- but Harry’s is just about to take off. His first single is just starting to get radio play. Something like this could ruin Harry if not handled correctly. Zayn tosses his phone down without sending anything, frustrated. He can’t believe something like this is going to be what ends one of the best things that have happened for him.

Having Harry in his life has given Zayn an outlet. Harry is someone Zayn can go to when he’s keyed up, when he’s mellowed out or even when he just wants someone to just exist with. Growling in agitation, Zayn flings the duvet off of his bed. He tears at the sheets until they come free, throws his pillows to the floor. He turns to his nightstand, keyed up with anger. His water bottle and library book are slammed to the ground, landing harmlessly in the pile of sheets though the act of throwing them feels nice. Zayn reaches a hand out for something else to toss and gets his hands around a stupid knickknack he has sitting there. He brings his arm back to throw it, thinks it will make a satisfying sound if he changes aim and makes it hit the wall, but then his fingers shape it out and he feels the rage leave his body, recognizing what is in his hands.

He sinks down to the floor, head resting against his now-bare mattress. He brings his knees to his chest, elbows resting on them as he holds the first thing Harry had ever given him in his hands. He turns the small snow globe around and around between his fingers, weighing it in his hands and watching the white plastic pieces floating around inside. 

 

> “What’s your favorite country to perform in?” Harry asks. His head is heavy on Zayn’s chest but Zayn doesn’t mind, running his finger through Harry’s sweat-damp hair as their breathing slows from a marathon round where Zayn had actually lost count of the different positions he’d let Harry bend him into.
> 
> “Erm, Japan I think. The fans are mad passionate.”
> 
> “How many places have you performed?”
> 
> Zayn shakes his head, fingers itching for a cigarette though he’s content to just twist Harry’s hair into braids for now. “So many. I don’t know if I’ve ever properly counted.”
> 
> “Do you have a collection of anything?”
> 
> “What?”
> 
> Harry looks up at him, turning onto his back. “Don’t you collect anything? Like shot glasses or snow globes?”
> 
> Zayn thinks. “I used to send mum and the girls home something from each place. Like a box of sweets or a bunch of trinkets, I guess.”
> 
> “You never got yourself something?”
> 
> Zayn shrugs. “I got to perform to people who knew my words. I didn’t always think about getting anything else.”
> 
> Harry laughs, full-bodied and deep. “If you weren’t so genuine I would accuse you of being a complete cliché,” Harry teases. His eyes are bright against his tan and Zayn sweeps a chocolate brown lock of hair back from his face. “I think I’m going to collect things. It’d be nice to have markers of where I’ve been.”
> 
> Zayn doesn’t say much more, just leans in and uses his hands to coax Harry up the bed further, connecting their mouths and beginning their second, slower round.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> The next time he sees Harry, the lad hands him a small box wrapped up in a silver bow. Inside is a small snow globe of the Los Angeles skyline.

 

Zayn sighs and sets the snow globe down just as Liam walks into his room. He looks around at the mess of the bed, one eyebrow raised before his eyes see the object Zayn had just been holding. His expression softens into one of recognition.

“You serious about him, then, you think?” Liam asks, voice soft.

Inhaling deep, Zayn nods.

“He’s downstairs.”

Zayn should have known Harry would be the type to end things in person. He feels the blood drain from his face but he nods. “I’ll be down in a second, Li. Thanks mate.”

He takes a minute to gather himself, shaking the nerves from his system before heading out from his room and down the stairs to find Harry sitting in Zayn’s front den, playing tug o’ war with Rhino. He smiles despite himself at the sight, Rhino noticing him come in after a moment and abandoning his toy to trudge over to Zayn, his big puppy paws loud on the travertine floors.

“Zayn, hey,” Harry says, standing once he follows Rhino’s path. He walks around the sofa. “How are you? Are you alright?”

Zayn forces his smile wider. “I’m fine. Just worried about you. I’ll survive this; the press have said worse things about me than that I’m a poof.”

Harry pulls a face at the word but doesn’t say anything about it. “I was worried, I guess. Didn’t know how you’d be. I feel so guilty. I thought we’d vetted the neighbors better than this.”

Zayn keeps the unnatural smile on his lips. “It’s fine, Harry. Really. You didn’t have to come out here. Liam will put out a statement that it was just a work thing and enough people will believe it, especially those who want to.”

Something in Harry’s expression changes then. “Just a work thing?” he repeats, words tilting up at the end.

“Yeah, like. Maybe we’re working on a song together or something. Or we’re just mates who stayed up too late and I just crashed. It doesn’t have to be a coming out if you’re not ready for it.”

“Me?”

Zayn is getting frustrated again. “Yes. You. Why do you keep repeating me?”

“Zayn, I’m out. I was never in the closet. My family and my team know my preferences.”

Like it’s automatically programmed to destroy his own happiness, Zayn’s brain refuses to process this new information. “I don’t- your single is marketed as being about your ex-girlfriend.”

“Because it _is_ ,” Harry says, clearly growing frustrated himself. “And if it had been about an ex-boyfriend, that would have been the story I told. I don’t plan on ever having to come out and announce how I identify: people will either figure it out or speculate until their faces turn blue.”

“Oh.”

Harry stands in front of him quietly for a moment. “What about you? Are you in the closet?”

“No.” Zayn feels like his answer comes too quickly, nerves setting his voice on edge. “I mean. I’ve dated men and women in the past, though the press really only know about the women. It never mattered to me to tell them about lads. I never met-“ he trails off.

“Never met what?” Harry asks.

“Never met a lad worth mentioning to them, I guess. Not before.”

“Before me?”

Zayn grins, stepping closer to Harry and lifting a hand to tug at a curl from under Harry’s ridiculously hipster hat. “Before you,” he agrees.

“And now?”

Zayn leans in and presses a kiss to Harry’s bottom lip. “Let them speculate until their faces turn blue,” he recites.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
